


i lost you (a second time)

by borisrings



Category: The Goldfinch - Donna Tartt
Genre: M/M, Sad, boris is dead sorry, huh sorry, i wrote this in class huh, its a lil thing sorry, theo is full of pain, tw death, very sad actually
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-01
Updated: 2019-02-01
Packaged: 2019-10-20 14:53:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17624483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/borisrings/pseuds/borisrings
Summary: au where boris died in amsterdam.





	i lost you (a second time)

**Author's Note:**

> hey thanks for reading my work. its a really short thing and i wrote it in class so huuuh im sorry if its messy. i just write anywhere lol and i had this in mind since a long time. enjoy!

I didn’t cry at Boris's funeral.

 

I was just sitting on dull church’s bench, rubbing my hands together — reddened by the cold of December — and I was listening to the priest who enunciated all the countries he went to, including those where he promised to take me.

There were more people than I thought — many women, including one who was wearing a white coat like snow that night; I had not left her sight during the entire ceremony —  and I felt uncomfortable; everyone was looking at me, as if they knew it was my fault.

 

I didn’t cry because it couldn’t be real; I knew he would come back the next day, with a _Hey Potter, you should listen to the new Ice-T sound, very good! Yes, I swear!_ , and the vision of his body falling on the floor of the gray and dirty parking lot in Amsterdam was just a bad dream, a demonic obsession, like those with my mother — that were becoming more poignant and scary every April 10th each year.

I was waiting, always with some water in Hobie's yellow kettle, ready to serve him tea (three sugars, very hot) when he would walk in the door. I would yell at him because he had not left me a message since _Amsterdam_ — he was never good at answering messages quickly though — then he would make a joke about my pale complexion and my too small glasses, and that would be all.

 

But he didn’t come back.

 

And when I realized that I had lost him — a second time, but for good this time — it was as if time had stopped: the melody of the vinyl player which was playing a Lou Reed album smudged in the smoke of my cigarette, which had slipped from my inanimate hand into my ashtray, and the world had just melted into a thousand broken pieces, as violently as my heart at that moment. And I started crying — a breath of loss and pain in my mind made me shed abundant tears on my lean, colorless cheeks.

I cried so much that I felt that I was becoming a tear myself; like a drop of water in an ocean of mourning and sadness.

I did many things at this moment — I screamed, moaned and sobbed saying it was my fault — but I was in a kind of a trance when I grabbed this box of capsules of my suitcase — I hadn’t unpacked it since Amsterdam; I was waiting for Boris to come out of nowhere and take me on a new dangerous but exciting adventure. But a force took hold of me and I fell to the ground, my hand on the heart, which was about to come out of my chest. If he was here, he would be calling me an idiot, _Potter you're really stupid sometimes that you make me laugh_ , and at this idea I laughed, and I laughed so much that my lungs started to hurt.

And if he was there, he would have taken me in his arms, as if he had done so often, then everything would have resumed his course. My soul cried so much that I could not breathe — but I could still smell his wild and fearless scent, and I felt the ghost of his lips on the back of my hand. My body was invaded by a dirty and dark pain that was becoming more and more deadly — like when my mother played with our old lobby’s piano, with each note, the melody became stronger, more powerful and more and more intoxicating.

Then I smiled, in a tearing, but plenitude this time — because at that moment, I finally figured out who he had been for me all this time, in a way, I knew he had made my life a little less heavy and painful. He had been an angel with a hard and firm stare, with a transcendent smile (redone), with hands full of cold metal rings that were refreshing my hands on warm and arid young nights, and with the most loving heart that he wanted to give to each person who crossed his path, a little of his weak happiness.

 

I smiled, and, I swear it again today that I felt a warm breath in my ear at this moment: _Smile, smile Potter, don’t listen to their bullshit: it's not that bad here. C’mon Potter, rise and shine, and stop crying, you look like a moron._

 

I smiled again.


End file.
